The rumble of hooves follows the violent shriek of opening gates as I watch on, through my sunglasses, with a cold beer in hand. Next to me were my brother, his wife, and my two-year-old goddaughter, with the rest of my family circling us, watching my goddaughter’s every move. We laughed in joy at her newly forming words, cheered for a winning ticket, and shrugged off a loss with a sip of beer. It was a classy family reunion in the comfortable Chicago suburbs, yet I struggled to feel comfortable.
Each losing ticket would have paid for a week of food for Tatá. Each losing ticket would have paid for ten new books for Noel. Each losing ticket would have paid for a patient’s prenatal supplements. Each losing ticket was a reminder of the comfort I was born into and of the endless need that I left behind in the Dominican Republic. Just like these tickets, so much value in my life had been passing by unappreciated: running, potable, warm water, garbage collection, air conditioning, electricity, etc. In the Dominican Republic, I had learned to eat what was available, shower with a bucket of ice-cold water, and embrace mosquito bites. I had learned to be human. I learned to appreciate comfort in the rare moments when it came.
Upon return, the American life seemed excessive: excessively comfortable, excessively accommodating. I didn’t need thirty options on my menu. I didn’t need a ride down the street. I didn’t need the temperature control on my shower. I was readjusting to American life because I had so intimately known Dominican life. As Hoffman and Gardner mention in Fieldwork and Writing From the Field, Malinowski’s recommendations for an anthropologist is for one to “live amongst the people one wishes to study, to participate in their everyday life, to communicate with them in their native tongue, and to remain isolated from one’s own cultural emissaries” (Gardner, A., & Hoffman 2006). By living with my hosts, Tatá and Fedecito, I had uncovered a true Malinowskinian immersion—so much so, that my normal life seemed unfamiliar. Among the adjustments, I had even noticed a retrogression of my native English language abilities. I hardly felt American anymore.
Yet my time in the Dominican Republic was no walk in the park, either. I shared similar experiences with Greg Simon, who writes, “people remark on how white I am, how tall, and how pointy my nose is…Westerners are regularly considered smarter, sexier, harder working, and worldlier than people here” (Gardner, A., & Hoffman 2006). You see, in Samaná, I was no blended-in community member. I was the American in town. Perhaps the only white guy in town. In the almost entirely Afro-Caribbean community, I looked like the ‘beautiful’ white actors on T.V.; I was assumed to be fabulously rich and looking for sex. I was the misunderstood American, and upon coming home, I wasn’t even sure how American I was anymore. My identity was nebulous.
After adjusting to the first few weeks of life back home, I had fallen into my old habits: waiting for the shower to warm up, weighing decisions on restaurant menus, and spending too much money on mere recreation. It seemed as though my Dominican life was a far-off memory. But then Tatá called. At the sound of, “Ay mi muchachiiiiiito”, I was back in her kitchen. I could smell the tostones being fried, I could hear Fedecito playing the saxophone—my Dominican life came back to the forefront. What I felt was very similar to the experience of Karen Marie Greenough from the University of Kentucky, who writes that, “my brain has compartmentalized my Nigerian life from my American life” (Gardner, A., & Hoffman 2006). In the same way, I have since resettled into my university life but can nonetheless reflect on my Dominican life, appreciating how easy it would be to go back to my Dominican ways.
The comparison between Dominican and American life has produced some interesting conclusions—for instance, I have been forced to re-think my idea of happiness. I used to run into my friend Noel, a twelve-year-old, at my favorite reading spot in town. He would ask me about my books, ask me to explain words to him, and after losing his patience, he would go off climbing a tree, doing flips in the sand, or munching on the fruit of an almond tree. One day, he insisted that I come and see his home. After walking through the jungle, up a steep hill, past piles of glass beer bottles (his uncle’s prized harvest) and plantain trees, we arrived at his home. This roughly 14’ x 14’, plank-boarded cube was home to five people. Noel was living in poverty. However, he was happy; he was healthy; he was smart.
The American perception of what is needed in order to be happy is impossibly extensive. Noel taught me that a human being’s happiness is not greatly defined by his belongings; rather, it is more defined by human psychology. As long as one’s basic needs can be assured (food, health, safety, etc.) then happiness becomes a function of the mind and not one’s belongings. From a development perspective, this is quite interesting, since the ultimate goal of human development cannot be economic growth. It must be opportunity, happiness, and self-fulfillment. As a future physician involved in medical development, I plan to make sure that this greater idea of human development always remains my focus—not merely access to physical resources.
My experience of reverse culture shock upon return to the United States has further exposed me to all that I have learned. The challenges of living in such a different society and being forced to adjust to it have allowed me to recognize the implicit learning present in immersion. As I continue to reflect, I continue to learn—and by taking advantage of this, I can be sure to draw more profound conclusions (academically and personally) from my research experience. In my reflection, I have come up with the following two questions: “To what degree are humans morally obligated to sacrifice their material possessions for others?” and “What do the people of Samaná really need?” Development due to economic forces is only a part of the equation, but as we see in the United States, deeper aspects of human development must be further understood and practiced.
Each losing ticket would have paid for a week of food for Tatá. Each losing ticket would have paid for ten new books for Noel. Each losing ticket would have paid for a patient’s prenatal supplements. Each losing ticket was a reminder of the comfort I was born into and of the endless need that I left behind in the Dominican Republic. Just like these tickets, so much value in my life had been passing by unappreciated: running, potable, warm water, garbage collection, air conditioning, electricity, etc. In the Dominican Republic, I had learned to eat what was available, shower with a bucket of ice-cold water, and embrace mosquito bites. I had learned to be human. I learned to appreciate comfort in the rare moments when it came.
Upon return, the American life seemed excessive: excessively comfortable, excessively accommodating. I didn’t need thirty options on my menu. I didn’t need a ride down the street. I didn’t need the temperature control on my shower. I was readjusting to American life because I had so intimately known Dominican life. As Hoffman and Gardner mention in Fieldwork and Writing From the Field, Malinowski’s recommendations for an anthropologist is for one to “live amongst the people one wishes to study, to participate in their everyday life, to communicate with them in their native tongue, and to remain isolated from one’s own cultural emissaries” (Gardner, A., & Hoffman 2006). By living with my hosts, Tatá and Fedecito, I had uncovered a true Malinowskinian immersion—so much so, that my normal life seemed unfamiliar. Among the adjustments, I had even noticed a retrogression of my native English language abilities. I hardly felt American anymore.
Yet my time in the Dominican Republic was no walk in the park, either. I shared similar experiences with Greg Simon, who writes, “people remark on how white I am, how tall, and how pointy my nose is…Westerners are regularly considered smarter, sexier, harder working, and worldlier than people here” (Gardner, A., & Hoffman 2006). You see, in Samaná, I was no blended-in community member. I was the American in town. Perhaps the only white guy in town. In the almost entirely Afro-Caribbean community, I looked like the ‘beautiful’ white actors on T.V.; I was assumed to be fabulously rich and looking for sex. I was the misunderstood American, and upon coming home, I wasn’t even sure how American I was anymore. My identity was nebulous.
After adjusting to the first few weeks of life back home, I had fallen into my old habits: waiting for the shower to warm up, weighing decisions on restaurant menus, and spending too much money on mere recreation. It seemed as though my Dominican life was a far-off memory. But then Tatá called. At the sound of, “Ay mi muchachiiiiiito”, I was back in her kitchen. I could smell the tostones being fried, I could hear Fedecito playing the saxophone—my Dominican life came back to the forefront. What I felt was very similar to the experience of Karen Marie Greenough from the University of Kentucky, who writes that, “my brain has compartmentalized my Nigerian life from my American life” (Gardner, A., & Hoffman 2006). In the same way, I have since resettled into my university life but can nonetheless reflect on my Dominican life, appreciating how easy it would be to go back to my Dominican ways.
The comparison between Dominican and American life has produced some interesting conclusions—for instance, I have been forced to re-think my idea of happiness. I used to run into my friend Noel, a twelve-year-old, at my favorite reading spot in town. He would ask me about my books, ask me to explain words to him, and after losing his patience, he would go off climbing a tree, doing flips in the sand, or munching on the fruit of an almond tree. One day, he insisted that I come and see his home. After walking through the jungle, up a steep hill, past piles of glass beer bottles (his uncle’s prized harvest) and plantain trees, we arrived at his home. This roughly 14’ x 14’, plank-boarded cube was home to five people. Noel was living in poverty. However, he was happy; he was healthy; he was smart.
The American perception of what is needed in order to be happy is impossibly extensive. Noel taught me that a human being’s happiness is not greatly defined by his belongings; rather, it is more defined by human psychology. As long as one’s basic needs can be assured (food, health, safety, etc.) then happiness becomes a function of the mind and not one’s belongings. From a development perspective, this is quite interesting, since the ultimate goal of human development cannot be economic growth. It must be opportunity, happiness, and self-fulfillment. As a future physician involved in medical development, I plan to make sure that this greater idea of human development always remains my focus—not merely access to physical resources.
My experience of reverse culture shock upon return to the United States has further exposed me to all that I have learned. The challenges of living in such a different society and being forced to adjust to it have allowed me to recognize the implicit learning present in immersion. As I continue to reflect, I continue to learn—and by taking advantage of this, I can be sure to draw more profound conclusions (academically and personally) from my research experience. In my reflection, I have come up with the following two questions: “To what degree are humans morally obligated to sacrifice their material possessions for others?” and “What do the people of Samaná really need?” Development due to economic forces is only a part of the equation, but as we see in the United States, deeper aspects of human development must be further understood and practiced.